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The duchess chuckled. “I like you all the more for your honest assessment of reading holy writ, Miss Doyle, and your other book sounds most intriguing.”
At the Duchess of Kelbrook’s unpretentious response, Elizabeth felt a similar surge of appreciation. She could only imagine how aghast Mrs. Parkin would have been at her description of the Bible.
“The late vicar, Mr. Crawford, was very keen on bird watching,” Elizabeth said. “As a child, I would occasionally join him in the back garden of the parsonage, and after we’d spotted a new species, we’d go to Mr. Edwards’s book to see what we could learn about it.”
“I remember that about Mr. Crawford,” Lady Langton said. “Whenever he came to Langton Manor to speak with my husband, he would ask if he could take a look at the swallows nesting under the eaves of the stables on his way out.”
“I heard the swallows this morning,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes. They’re still there, I believe.” Lady Langton’s expression dropped slightly. “My eyesight is not what it used to be, so I haven’t been to see them for some time.”
“Perhaps we could go together.” As soon as the suggestion fell off Elizabeth’s lips, she realized how very forward it was. “Forgive me. I did not mean to assume that you would wish to go with me, my lady.”
“Nonsense.” Lady Langton said. “We shall make an excellent pair. I can give directions, and you can make sure we arrive safely.”
“A splendid idea.” The duchess looked genuinely pleased. “Tomorrow morning, perhaps? As long as the fair weather holds.”
“That would be lovely,” Lady Langton said, and Elizabeth found herself already looking forward to it.
***
Jonas stood beneath the apple tree, looking out over his mother’s rose garden. Clouds scudded across the sky, making the moonlight come and go with frustrating irregularity. James had canvassed the grooms to find him a well-worn jacket, shirt, and pair of breeches. The jacket was ill fitting and the breeches torn, but now that he was clean-shaven, Jonas was concerned that the rough clothing would be insufficient to hide his identity. He was relying on the darkness to help conceal him.
There was still no movement near the servants’ entrance. He guessed that would be the door Miss Doyle would choose to exit, but he planned to stay hidden until he was sure. A bird sailed silently past, and Jonas shook his injured arm slightly. It ached, and the tension he was currently experiencing was only exacerbating the discomfort. He let out a breath. His anxiety made little sense. He’d seen Miss Doyle only yesterday, and they’d spoken openly in the past. Why this time felt different, he could not say. But it did.
Finally, a chink of light appeared at the servants’ entrance. A door closed, and Jonas waited. Footsteps sounded, moving toward him across the gravel path, and at last, the figure of a small woman came into view. She was moving quickly but quietly, and Jonas stepped out from behind the tree to intercept her as she entered the rose garden.
“Well met, Miss Doyle.” He spoke softly but startled her still.
She gasped and swung around. “Reynard.”
The sight of her damaged face brought back the anger he’d experienced when he’d seen her in the drawing room, and he did little to tamp it down. As far as Miss Doyle knew, this was Reynard’s first time witnessing it.
“Your face!” he said.
She raised her fingers to her swollen cheek. “I apologize. I had hoped my bonnet would hide the worst of it.”
“It’s not for you to be apologizin’.” Talking through gritted teeth and purposely dropping letters was proving difficult and gave him unexpected pause. When they’d last been together, he’d been in sufficient pain to erase all thoughts of affecting the local dialect. It was quite possible he’d not done it in the hidden room, which meant that assuming it now would only complicate matters further. He started again. “Was it your father?”
“Yes. He wanted me to marry Mr. Cummings, and I refused.”
For the second time in his hearing, Miss Doyle made the assertion with her head held high, and Jonas felt a swell of approval at her courage.
“He never should have hit you, but you did the right thing. Cummings is a snake.”
She looked at him curiously. “You do not approve of the magistrate?”
“What is there about the man that might meet with my approval?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Then we are agreed.”
She gave a crooked smile, and his chest ached to see how difficult it was for her to move her facial muscles.
“I had hoped we would be,” she said. “And I had also hoped that since you helped me escape him once before, you might be willing to do so again.”
“What do you require?” he asked.
